


Moondance

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blackouts, M/M, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 09:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: When Brakebills is hit by a magical blackout, Eliot must help Quentin confront one of his greatest fears.





	Moondance

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Welters Challenge, the final week, “Blackout.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. “Twilight Time” was composed by Artie Dunn, Al Nevins, Morty Nevins, and Buck Ram. Comments and kudos are magic! And as always, enjoy.

Moondance  
By Lexlicious70 

“Fuck!” Margo snapped as the lights in the Physical Kids cottage went out all at once, then raised her gaze toward the second floor. “Did one of you assholes overload the fuse box again?” She shouted before groping her way to the bar. Outside, the night sky wore a thick blanket of clouds. Eliot sighed. 

“These damn hipsters with their retro plug-in vibrators,” he observed. 

“Hilarious. Now can you cast Chvartli’s mini sun before I break my neck?” Margo asked. 

Eliot pushed his hands together and murmured the spell’s words, but no light grew between his hands. He frowned. 

“The fuck?” He tried it again—nothing. 

“Eliot!” 

“I’m trying! It won’t cast!” He said, and the door to the cottage banged open. Eliot turned, peering into the darkness. “Oh, what fresh hell is this—who’s there?” 

“It’s just me! It’s Todd!” The first-year closed the cottage door behind him. “I was over at the library when the power and the magic went out. Dean Fogg says not to panic, a spell went wrong during a faculty meeting. It should be back by—” the sound of Todd’s shins whacking into a chair and the resulting hiss of pain interrupted him—“Ow, ow . . . tomorrow morning.” 

“Tomorrow morning like seven or eight hours from now? What are we supposed to do until then?” Margo asked. 

“Maybe we could find some candles and play a game or read?” Todd suggested, and Eliot could almost feel the intensity of Margo’s scowl in the dark room. 

“That’s a good idea, Todd,” she almost cooed it. “We can play Operation. What do you want removed first, your heart or your balls?” 

“Uh. I’m going to—I’ll just be upstairs.” Todd fled before he finished speaking, stumbling up the first two steps before retreating completely. 

“Tell Quentin to come down!” Eliot called after him, and a glint of Margo’s nail polished showed briefly at the bar’s brass inlay before her hand found his elbow. Eliot slipped an arm around her. 

“So, any ideas for entertainment?” 

“I think I have some candles around here somewhere . . .” Eliot began feeling around for drawer handles. 

“Hey, uh—Eliot?” Todd’s voice spoke from halfway down the staircase. “Quentin’s not in his room.” 

“What?” Eliot turned. 

“I knocked and there was no answer, so I peeked in and his room is empty.” 

“There’s only one place he could have gone,” Margo said, and Eliot nodded as he made his way toward the door. 

“The library.” 

“Wait, El, where are you going? I can’t see for shit!” 

“Have Todd help you find some candles. Check in my nightstand, there might be a lighter in the top drawer. The top drawer!” Eliot said firmly, and Margo scoffed into the darkness. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t jumble your lube collection.” 

“Thanks, Bambi!” Eliot found the cottage door and headed out into the night, the moon and stars obscured by thunderheads. Eliot crossed the campus, his eidetic memory helping him along. All the buildings and charming coach lights at the crossways of the campus paths were dark, but Eliot could almost make out the lines of the library coming up on his right. 

This is probably silly, Eliot thought to himself as he made a right and found his way to the library doors. Quentin is probably fine, he might have already left when the power cut out and could even be on his way back to the cottage. Still . . . he’s only been at Brakebills a few weeks, and Henry would probably give me hell if he got lost in the hedge maze or fell into one of the fountains. This isn’t at all because you’re fond of Quentin and his welfare is becoming increasingly important to you. Not at all.

Eliot pulled the library doors open and stepped into its darkness. The foyer seemed empty and Eliot’s footfalls echoed as he passed by the large reception desk and into the hushed recesses of Brakebills’ book stacks. The shelves in room after room overflowed with books, and Eliot could hear the ominous flapping of the feral books high in the eaves of the ancient history room, their magic so old that it seemed the blackout didn’t affect them much. Eliot found his way down to the applied magic section, where he knew Quentin might have gone. The glassed-in room featured a scatter of tables and padded chairs, each table large enough to accommodate six to eight students. The room was designed for first-year study groups and research and the familiar scent of books both old and new, along with the faint scents of coffee, perfume and cologne, and a whiff of ozone that Eliot always associated with first years hung in the air. Eliot paused, his head cocked, as thunder rumbled outside. 

Thought I heard something . . . 

He ventured in further, taking careful steps, his arms spread slightly to prevent walking into a table or stumbling over a chair. He passed through an alcove into one of the secondary rooms and stopped as a sound reached him—muffled sobbing, mixed with the quick, jagged breaths of someone well on his way to panicking. Alarm bells went off in Eliot’s head. 

“Quentin?” He called into the darkness, the sound of his own echoing voice startling him. “Quentin, are you in here?” 

The panicked noises grew louder and Eliot followed them, picking up his pace. He reached a table in the corner, a smaller one, accompanied by two chairs. Eliot’s booted foot touched one as he peered down. The other laid on its side nearby, as if someone had knocked it over suddenly. He caught the glint of metal in the dark and knelt down to touch it, only to find Quentin’s messenger bag. He turned his head to find Quentin hunched under the table, his knees drawn to his chest, his hands clapped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. Eliot’s stomach dropped and he crawled under the table. 

“Quentin? Hey . . . Q . . .” He touched one of Quentin’s hands and the younger man gave a strangled yelp of surprise and flung himself backwards, only to slam into the wall. He opened his eyes, his entire expression filled with panic. Eliot pulled one hand away from the side of Quentin’s face and interlocked their fingers. “Quentin! Hey! It’s me!” 

Quentin blinked rapidly as Eliot spoke, although his panicked breathing didn’t slow. 

“Eliot . .. ? What—what are you doing here?” 

“I came to find you! One of the professor’s spells backfired during a meeting, that’s what caused the blackout.” Eliot glanced down at Quentin’s trembling hand. “I thought maybe you might get turned around finding your way back to the cottage—what’s wrong? Why are you hiding under here?” 

“Uhhm . . . I was sitting here and the lights went out so I tried to cast a light spell but it didn’t work and the next thing I knew I was here alone and---and I couldn’t—” Quentin gestured toward the library doors, his eyes bright with tears. Eliot squeezed his hand. 

“You couldn’t what?” 

“I couldn’t leave!” Quentin almost wailed it. Eliot could feel him shaking in the small space and chose his next words carefully. 

“Can you tell me why?” He asked, and Quentin’s full lips trembled. 

“Mmm mmm.” He said after a moment, drawing his legs up tighter. 

“Why not? Quentin . . . you can trust me. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but do you remember what I told you that day out on the back patio?” Eliot gave his hand another gentle squeeze. “You’re not alone here. Not then, and not now. I came all this way across a very dark campus to find you, not judge you.” 

“But you like judging people,” Quentin said in a small voice, and Eliot nodded. 

“While I can’t deny that, I’d say that this is a special case. Quentin, please. I want to help.” 

Quentin ran a shaking hand across his mouth and Eliot could smell the sour tang of terror on the younger man. 

“I’m—I’m afraid of the dark,” Quentin said at last as he cast a sidelong glance at Eliot. 

“Well, we all have our phobias.” Eliot said after a moment. “Sometimes they stem from childhood trauma, and sometimes they’re completely irrational. In my case, it’s wasps. They horrify me; I’d rather face down a whole slew of hedge witches than pass close to a wasp nest.” 

Quentin sniffled but didn’t let go of Eliot’s hand. 

“I don’t know how old I was . . . maybe six . . . some of the neighborhood kids and I were playing and we found a hole in a fence at a construction site near my house. We started playing hide and seek and I crawled into this concrete pipe . . . I got about halfway in when I realized the other end was buried in concrete. I tried to turn around but I’d passed a narrow section on the way in. I started screaming for help but no one heard me. And—and then the sun went down. I spent the night curled up in that pipe.” Quentin’s voice shook. “The search and rescue team didn’t find me until the next morning.” 

“Jesus. That must have been terrifying for you.” 

“It’s why I couldn’t leave. I tried but it’s so dark!” 

“I understand, Q. It’s going to be all right. We’re going to leave together—” 

“No!” Quentin pulled his hand away from Eliot’s and bunched both into the hem of sweater. 

“Quentin, I want you to listen. If we’re going to get back to the cottage to wait this out, you’re going to have to trust me! Do you trust me?” 

Quentin yanked on the hem of his sweater until it hung out of shape, his eyes squeezed shut. Finally, he nodded. 

“I trust you, El.” 

“All right. Give me your hands. We’re going to move forward—” He took Quentin’s offered hands—“and I’ve got you. Whenever you get scared, you squeeze my hands and we’ll stop and rest. Understand?” 

“I—I’ll try,” Quentin whispered, and Eliot paused to sling Quentin’s messenger bag around his neck before he began to lure Quentin out from under the table as he moved backwards. 

“Come on . . . good, I’m right here . . . just out from under the table. Now stand up. Good!’ Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hands in praise. “Now we’re going to move across the library just like this . . . the doors aren’t very far. Quentin? Look at me.” Eliot said as Quentin’s eyes began to dart left and right. “Eyes on me.” Eliot walked backwards, his and Quentin’s elbows bent, their hands joined, their faces less than two inches apart. Quentin took small, unsure steps, like those of a deer in an unfamiliar meadow. They passed under the alcove and left the glassed-in room, and Quentin dug his heels in. 

“No, no, nonononono!” He gasped, his tone spiking with octaves of panic, and Eliot paused. 

“Quentin, it’s all right, I’m still here. Hey!” He squeezed Quentin’s hands and tugged him forward a step. Quentin’s messenger bag thumped against Eliot’s chest and he seized upon an idea. “Do you have a Fillory book in your bag?” He asked, and Quentin’s head jerked around at the mention of Fillory. 

“Uh?” 

“You always carry a Fillory book with you! Which one is in your bag?” Eliot asked. 

“I—The F-Flying Forest.” Quentin stammered, and Eliot nodded. 

“Do you remember how Jane got separated from Helen while they were in the forest, and how scared she was? 

“Yeah. A lot of readers have compared that to the scene in Snow White, some of the Fillory forums even have pretty extensive meta about it,” Quentin said, and Eliot blessed Quentin’s obsession and his pedantic nature. 

“Do you remember what the dryad did to help her see that the forest was no place to fear?” 

Quentin nodded. 

“He danced with her.” 

That’s right.” Eliot led him across the library and out the double doors. When they reached the edge of the Sea, Quentin balked at the huge dark expanse and Eliot tugged him forward and into his arms. 

“Eyes on me, Quentin,” he said firmly, and led the younger man into a sweeping waltz across the grass as he began to sing softly in Quentin’s ear: 

“Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time  
Out of the mist your voice is calling, it's twilight time  
When purple colored curtains mark the end of day  
I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time  
Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done  
Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun  
I count the moments darling till you're here with me  
Together at last at twilight time . . .” 

Quentin stumbled along as Eliot led, but his smaller stature made it simple for Eliot to guide him, one hand dropping to Quentin’s right hip to push him in the right direction. Eliot let his sense memory guide him and halfway across the Sea, Quentin’s head dropped onto Eliot’s chest, resting it there as Eliot murmured the song’s refrain. Finally, Eliot’s foot hit pavement and he found himself on the pathway to the cottage. He paused to catch his breath and Quentin seemed to come out of his torpor all at once. It began to rain, but he didn’t flinch. 

“El?” He glanced up over Eliot’s shoulder to see the outline of the cottage. “Are we . . .?” 

“Home.” Eliot nodded. “Are you all right? Do you want to go inside?” 

“In a minute.” A pause. “I can’t believe you did that for me.” A nervous string of laughter escaped him. “No one’s ever sung to me before.” 

The rain tapered off as the moon played tag with fat, dark clouds, each of them edged with eager flickers of lighting. 

“You must think I’m such a child,” Quentin said at last, and Eliot slid a gentle hand under Quentin’s chin to tilt his head upward. Behind them, the cottage lights flared to life and a muffled cheer went up from within. 

“What I think, Quentin, is that you have the courage and talent to make a fine magician. And it was my pleasure to dance with you.” 

“Thank you.” Quentin cleared his throat and pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “Do—uhm, I still have the book. The Flying Forest . . . do you want to come up to my room and talk about it some more?” 

Hope flooded Eliot’s heart. 

“I’d like that, Q.” He glanced up at the sky. “Looks like it might storm. I hope we don’t lose power again.” 

Quentin took his messenger bag from Eliot. 

“I’m not worried, El.” He slid his fingers between Eliot’s until they locked together. “My room’s not big enough for another dance, but I’m sure we could figure out some way to pass the time.” Quentin smiled, a promise rising in his dark eyes. 

Eliot glanced down at their joined hands and allowed himself a smile as Quentin tugged him toward the inviting lights of the cottage. 

FIN


End file.
